


A Collection of Kisses

by Nny



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 20 possible kisses between John and Rodney; all entries I made to the LJ McSmooch community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You - you're - " he sputtered, connections clicking together in his mind, "do you make _all_ major life decisions by flipping a coin, you - you enormously crazy person?"

**Chance**

 

"...and then _Simpson_ called me a misogynist, which is patently ridiculous."

"Because you hate everybody."

"Because I - " Rodney stopped his automatic agreement and glared at Sheppard, squinting a little in the dim light of his quarters. "Only the stupid ones!"

"And they were being stupid?"

"I just - " Rodney gestured back at the corridor, trying to outline the past ten minutes of conversation through outraged arm movements. "Were you not - "

John's face was in three-quarters profile, half his attention apparently on the quarter he'd got from somewhere and was setting up on its edge, fingers dark against the bright metal; there was enough of his expression visible to see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"You I hate most," Rodney told him, and huffed out a disgruntled breath as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

"Sure you do," said John. "Call it?"

He set the coin spinning across the desk and Rodney chose 'heads' and flopped back across Sheppard's bed, heavy boots still planted on the floor, without bothering to see where it landed. It was something he had taken to doing lately, tossing and flipping and spinning coins and then pouting at the outcome, like whether they played chess or raced the cars - or whatever else it was he was deciding - really mattered in the grand scheme of things. Rodney'd be quite content to just stay here, fingers laced across his stomach, and listen to John clean his golf clubs and expound on the wonders of the Back to the Future trilogy, if that was what was on the agenda - although he'd never dream of saying it. 

There was a satisfied noise from over by the desk and Rodney suddenly had a moment of worry - what if it _was_ what was on the agenda now? - before John's weight dipped the mattress next to him. And before he could move, or even think much of anything at all, those - those were John's _fingers_ , in his _hair_ , and that. Well that was lips. Which was patently ridiculous. 

"This is patently ridiculous," he said, when John's lips were out of the way again. And then he moved, far faster than he usually did for anything other than coffee, and caught John's wrist before it could get far away. John was chewing on his lip, which was frankly misuse of resources, and Rodney leaned forward and pressed another kiss against his mouth, but pulled away before anything could get really interesting. 

"You - you're - " he sputtered, connections clicking together in his mind, "do you make _all_ major life decisions by flipping a coin, you - you enormously crazy person?"

"Hey," John said, his eyes still on Rodney's mouth and a slow grin spreading, "it's working for me so far."


	2. Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John blinked up at him, unprepared for how the catch of Rodney's ragged fingernail against his skin twisted deep in his stomach.

**Fluff**

 

John hadn't shaved since last night, and the bottom of his chin - right where he'd managed to grate it on the sidewalk, right where Madison insisted he put one of her Disney Princess band aids because the gentle welling just wouldn't _stop_ \- was already approaching a seven, maybe eight o'clock shadow. It was going to be a _bitch_ to get off again. 

Maddie didn't seem to be bothered about the process, even. She was lurking in the doorway, swinging the glittery purple helmet that had ensured both Rodney's status as 'coolest uncle ever' and that his blood pressure remain vaguely healthy, inspecting the Cinderella band aid that covered her elbow; mostly by ensuring it could be pulled off easily, all the better for grossing out her friends. She wasn't watching, and John was pretty sure he could've bluffed his way out of the humiliation of having Belle attached to his chin - Jeannie, giggling, had insisted it was appropriate - if it weren't Rodney that'd been nominated resident care-giver. 

Rodney had smiled more than a little bit evilly as he'd carefully cleaned John's chin with the antiseptic wipe. It was - John could take a bullet with stoicism and manly jawlines, was the thing. _Stings_ , though? Cuts and grazes and barked shins he _hated_ , and Rodney _knew_ that. And, consequently, was taking too much goddamned pleasure in carefully smoothing out the Disney Princess to make sure she caught every last hair. John pouted. 

"There," Rodney said briskly, "all better." And just as he had with Madison, he kissed the tip of his finger and traced it just against the edge of the band aid. Just below John's lips. John blinked up at him, unprepared for how the catch of Rodney's ragged fingernail against his skin twisted deep in his stomach. Rodney's eyes widened, a tide of red climbing up to his hairline. 

"Huh." John smiled, in that way he had, in that way that made Rodney's mouth drop a little open. That was definitely interesting, and John was looking forward to exploring it further. 

Right after he'd punished Rodney by teaching Madison to Ollie.


	3. Gesture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your grandmother gave me a tablecloth."

**Gesture**

 

"Your grandmother gave me a tablecloth," Rodney said as soon as he was within speaking range; with Rodney, obviously, that was a little further than the average person, but that was okay - the rooms in the house were large, and there was currently no one else in this one. John blinked at him, bemused, as he continued. "And I don't even know where to _start_ with all the things that are wrong with that sentence."

"I, er - " John began, but no. There was pretty much nothing he had to offer. "What?"

"First, the fact that you _have_ a grandmother, which I guess I shouldn't be surprised by, since it took family tragedy to even find out you had a brother, where Ronon gets _ex-wife_ after a couple of beers. Which, by the way, I was only expecting to _meet_ said brother when you mentioned a small family get-together, not a collection of lesser-spotted Sheppards popping out of cabinets every time I turn my back." 

"Phillips," said John, tracking Rodney's fast pacing, feeling like he was watching a tennis match, "she was my mom's - "

"Furthermore," Rodney interrupted, holding up a finger, "I'm not sure I like her assumption that I wouldn't already have tablecloths of my own. I'm a successful scientist, I make a frankly ridiculous amount of money, and just because I don't have - " he gestured pointedly - " _nipple alligators_ , doesn't mean I'm not perfectly capable of buying tablecloths just as nice as this one." 

He shook the tablecloth, until now tucked under his arm, in John's general direction. It was one of the best ones, John noticed absently, heavy and thick and embroidered and probably about as expensive as one of the slower racehorses. Mostly, though, his brain was stuck on what the hell Rodney was - 

"Right," he drawled after a second. " _Lacoste_."

"That's what I said!" Rodney exclaimed, his voice bouncing back from the crystal on the hideous goddamned dresser that had been bought under the influence of stepmom number two. Dave had always hated it, but it was made out of something expensive, or by someone expensive, or _something_ , and the fact that it was still in pride of place said a lot about why John'd never been at home here. 

"Sure it was," John agreed easily, and carefully timed his movement to catch Rodney around the wrist on this pass, tugging a little to encourage him closer. 

"Also - " Rodney's voice had a little less vehemence now, apparently distracted by the gentle movement of John's thumb against the knobbly bone in his wrist, "also I want to know what she meant by giving me a _tablecloth_. I'm not the - " John pulled, suddenly, and Rodney crumpled obligingly onto the stupidly delicate-looking sofa beside him, the tablecloth draping half over both of their laps. "If anything," Rodney mumbled, still intent on his diatribe, " _you're_ the wife." 

"I'm pretty sure," John told him, intently peeling Rodney's fingers from where they were woven into damask, "it's an heirloom. I guess she means," he shrugged, shoulders moving more easily, less heavily than they had in what felt like forever, "welcome to the family." 

He lifted Rodney's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss into the palm, holding it there with his own hand as he wove Rodney's fingers with his, instead.


	4. Last First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodney's first first kiss hadn't been with April Bingham at all.

**Last First Kiss**

 

Rodney's first first kiss hadn't been with April Bingham at all. That was just what he'd told Jeannie, his friends at school, most of _her_ friends too - because Rodney didn't have all that many friends when it came down to it, but did have a tendency to over share and a piece of enormous and important news to let out. After all this was _April Bingham_ , she of the blonde hair and the cute retainer, she of the not entirely embarrassing math scores and practically-a-cheerleader older sister. News like that was worth conveying to anyone and everyone, up to and including the woman who came 'round to fix his mother's hair. Friends outside of school though, not so much with the sharing, since mostly that came down to Peter from across the street. 

Peter, who'd been the Real First First Kiss. 

The thing about Peter was that he was all the kinds of awesome that Rodney wasn't supposed to like, any more. Peter liked snowball fighting, and action figures, and building castles in the sky filled with teams of superheroes - superheroes that _Rodney's_ team could kick the asses of six ways to Sunday, no matter what Peter said. The thing about Peter was that he never once asked Rodney to do his homework for him, never asked him to join the chess club or help him with his science fair project, never called him a dork or a geek or a nerd, not even once, not even kidding. 

Rodney's first first kiss, he'd been more aware of the bruise forming on his elbow from where they'd fought over the Spiderman comic hard enough to fall off the bed. He'd been more aware of Peter's sweaty hand wrapped tightly enough around his wrist that he was pretty sure it was cutting off the circulation. The kiss itself was kind of indifferent, wet and weird-tasting and abruptly ended when Rodney noticed just how hard Peter was clutching the Spiderman comic because didn't he know how to treat them at _all_?

It was remembered, though, for the lack of expectation. For the way Peter had never expected him to be anything other than precisely himself; and somehow that made it better than all the other first kisses, practised and hot and normal-tasting as they might be. Rodney's memories of the best kiss always smelled like body-warmed newsprint and felt like acceptance. 

Weird, then, that his Last First Kiss (it'd better be the last, Sheppard, because he didn't have the patience to start all over again), had reflected it almost entirely: the way Sheppard's - _John's_ \- mouth had curled into a smirk as he used the extra height and preternatural bendiness to keep the comic out of Rodney's reach; the sharp inhale as Rodney noticed quite how close they were standing and the way it drained all the green from John's eyes and replaced it with dark, dark pupil; _almost_ in the way it wasn't indifferent, not even slightly, not even at all. 

Again with the acceptance, the smell of body-warmed newsprint mingling with ocean-fresh breeze, only this time Rodney couldn't give a good goddamn about the proper care of comics as John pressed him down, as he felt the pages crinkling under his back.


	5. Squishy Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knievel rocked back on his tires consideringly. 
> 
> "Y'know, I think your squishy's right," he drawled after a moment. "Pretty sure you won."

**Squishy Thing**

 

Knievel rocked back on his tires consideringly. 

"Y'know, I think your squishy's right," he drawled after a moment. "Pretty sure you won." 

"My squishy's always right," Doppler answered absently. "He just doesn't always want to admit it." He was bouncing, gingerly, the tiny squeak not loud enough to get far beyond the two of them. "Does my fender seem loose to you?" he asked after a moment. 

"I didn't hit you that hard," Knievel said, instantly on the defensive; his squishy was pretty reckless, sometimes, and it was all Knievel could do to keep to glancing contact. It wasn't like Doppler couldn't take it, though; he was built to more solid specs than Knievel was, and the only thing he had to worry about was that pretty yellow paint job of his. It was a little scratched up already and nothing particularly special, not like the custom work that'd gone into Knievel, but it looked pretty good on him. Suited his lines. 

"Well excuse me if I'd rather not have parts of my _bodywork_ come off in the middle of a race," Doppler snapped back, bouncing a little more vigorously in his temper. "It's all fun and games until someone loses a fender, and then there're showers of sparks, people screaming..."

"People screaming?" Knievel cocked his aerial to a particularly sardonic angle. 

"You've heard my squishy in a temper," Doppler shot back, but he subsided a little. Sometimes he seemed to put a little too much into the races they had, had a bit of an overactive imagination. 

"Not now though," Knievel said thoughtfully, and he cast around for the squishies, wondering how they'd resolved the leadership fight this time. Usually by now Doppler's would be demanding a rematch and his squishy'd be drawling something designed to annoy, but he hadn't heard anything for a - 

"Huh."

"Huh?" Doppler's attention was caught, and he quit bouncing long enough to take a look at what their squishies were up to. "Well that's - new," he volunteered after a moment. 

"Different," Knievel agreed. "They're not - eating, right?" Cool as he was trying to sound, he couldn't help noticing that his voice sounded a little more freaked out than he'd like. 

"They'd better not be!" And that was the reassuring thing about Doppler; no matter how freaked out Knievel sounded, Doppler'd always turn it up to 11. "I _need_ that squishy!"

"Maybe they're talking?" Knievel ventured, his headlights dimming doubtfully. "With the mouths, and all."

"You think it's possible to talk like that?" 

Knievel thought for a second, then rocked forward on his tires until his fender brushed against Doppler's.

"Nah," he said, after a moment's consideration. "Must be a squishy thing."


	6. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something deeply wrong with John's sinuses.

**Training**

 

There was something deeply wrong with John's sinuses.

Really, there had to be; it explained the faintly whining, nasal quality to his voice, the godawful laugh, the epic and earth-shattering nature of his snoring. That last was a relatively new discovery - for Rodney at least, since one had to assume that his wife might have noticed - and if it hadn't been for the years of practise at sleep deprivation, Rodney would have killed him within a week. But all of his time on Atlantis, apparently, had been training him for this; all the sleepless nights, the early mornings, the readiness to work after being woken by alarms. 

And it was somehow, ridiculously, worth it. To have John crawling into bed with him once the lights had gone out. To have the heavy reassurance of an arm across his middle to let him know that Atlantis' hero was still home and safe. It was better, actually; he'd spent hours in the control room and the infirmary reassuring himself, before he'd ever realised that at the heart of his worry was _this_ particular subset of emotions. (Apparently, all his time on Atlantis had been training him for this.) 

Rodney needed his sleep. Rodney _deserved_ his sleep. Rodney had carefully _trained_ himself to ignore anything that didn't directly affect his safety in order to get as much of it as humanly possible. There came a time, though, when defeat had to be admitted in the face of John's snoring and the infirmary staff had to be convinced that yes, ear-plugs were a medical emergency, at least if they wanted Rodney awake enough to be able to function and, oh, save all their asses? Again? The ear-plugs were a godsend, a revelation, surprisingly effective. The first time John had crawled into Rodney's bed after that he'd nearly wound up with a face full of headbutt. 

Now though, even with the earplugs, Rodney woke at the first gentle dip of the mattress. He could have slept through it, of course, but that would have meant missing the gentle press of John's lips each night, just below the hairline at the nape of his neck.

Frankly that was worth a little retraining.


	7. More Than That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who was your first kiss, Colonel?"

**More Than That**

 

"Since P3X-752," John said in a low voice, his arms crossed across his chest in the unwelcoming body language that Rodney had been too busy for days to notice. He really didn't have time for it now, either. 

"And that's why you've been avoiding me?"

John shrugged a little, still leaning against the wall by the door, still not coming any closer. Rodney huffed out an impatient sigh and crossed over to him, closing his hands around John's upper arms and ignoring the tiny flinch away. 

"I assume Jennifer says it'll get better, otherwise I'd expect less surliness and more artistically expressed manpain." 

John glared at him. 

"Eventually," he gritted out. 

Rodney sighed again, a little more indulgently. 

"Who was your first kiss, Colonel?"

That at least got his attention, murky green eyes snapping up to meet his as one eyebrow raised almost to his hairline. 

"Because...?"

"Does it matter?"

There was a slight relaxation - barely noticeable, if you didn't know the man - in the muscles under Rodney's hands, under Rodney's thumb that was sweeping gently back and forth. Evidently, it _didn't_ , which was - which was pretty reassuring, actually. 

"Billy Stephenson, from my softball team. We were maybe thirteen." John smirked a little. "It was under the bleachers, which became kind of a tradition."

Rodney scowled. 

"Well that's rather sickeningly cute."

John shrugged, unsettling Rodney's hands.

"He punched me in the face after. Less of a tradition."

"Sadly that's sometimes what you get for being the prettiest princess."

John stiffened fast and sharp, his eyes going hard, but Rodney pushed him back against the wall before he could make the slightest effort at pulling away. 

"Oh please; if you're the princess then I'm the terrifying dowager queen, with unfortunate hair and a worrying love of power."

The twitch of John's cheek that was always a precursor to one of his smirks was obviously reluctant but unmistakeable. Rodney pressed his advantage. 

"And how was it?"

John shot him a sardonic look. 

"Before the punch? 'cos it kinda went downhill right about then."

"No, I'm not asking for your assessment since it'd only be subjective in any case. I meant - well."

Actions always having spoken louder than words, Rodney leaned forward to brush his mouth against John's. It was a brief dry contact, a little scratchy, and over before John could react. Rodney cleared his throat. 

"Like that?"

John's smile had evidently lost its way somewhere, since it hadn't made its way to his mouth yet but was making itself known in his voice and his eyes. 

"More like - "

This one was a little softer, a little longer, with that particular set of lips that - while not _open_ \- suggests a willingness to be persuaded. Rodney hummed softly, happily, and his eyes slid closed. Really, if John was kissing like that at _thirteen_ , it was no wonder that he'd developed into - well, _John_. 

"I liked that," he said decisively, once John had pulled away. "I think there should be more of that." 

There was ( _finally_ ) a slow smile in response, one that somehow went well with the slight flush on John's cheeks. 

"Yeah," he said, voice still low but tone entirely changed, "me too."

"Good," Rodney said, and quickly lifted a hand to hit John on the back of the head. "Then I will agree to ignore the frankly insulting and obviously ridiculous social gaffe in which you imply that this thing between us is entirely physical, and you will agree to accept the thought that erectile dysfunction is not the end of life as we know it." 

And then he leaned forward again, mumbling his uncertainties against John's mouth where they were almost hidden. "I thought we were - aren't we - ?"

"More than that," John agreed softly, and curled his hand gently around the back of Rodney's neck.


	8. Just Because

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...how the hell do you put it into words?

**Just Because**

 

There's something soft playing on the radio, something that John doesn't particularly have time for, little too placid and about nothing much at all, little too _mainstream_ ; it's been on the airwaves enough lately that Rodney can sing softly along with it. When he doesn't know the words he tends to make them up, narrating what he's doing or thinking over the lyrics, advanced astrophysics tripping over naive expressions of love - but hey, that's how John's brain's been wired a while, now. 

Right now, a softly plucked guitar is underscoring a song about making the perfect chilli, apparently. Beneath that, tapping out of rhythm, the-cat-Rodney-refuses-to-name's bowl clatters against the tiles of the kitchen floor. Rodney maintains it's not theirs, of course, but that hasn't stopped the bowl appearing, the bed on the floor in the corner of his study, the toys poorly concealed in the corner by the fridge. The noise doesn't distract Rodney from his gentle bopping along with the song, anyway, takes a lot more than that to interfere with his perfect sense of rhythm. (Sometimes John sees it as a challenge, seeing what _will_ \- knowing he's causing the stumble of Rodney's fingers on the keys of their piano always gets him smiling around what he's doing.)

He takes a couple of steps forward, out of the doorway, and rests his hands on Rodney's swaying hips. Rodney makes a quickly stifled squeak and raps him (pretty damned painfully) across the knuckles with a wooden spoon. 

" _Cold hands!_ " 

"I know," John answers, and leans in to smile against the back of Rodney's neck. 

"You know, when I signed up for this - " a wooden spoon is waved vaguely - "whole thing, I was under the impression that you had the mental capacity to remember to wear _gloves_ when shovelling snow. Clearly I was blinded to the moronic tendencies by superficial prettiness." 

John snorts a little, then leans over Rodney's shoulder until he can press a soft kiss against his cheek, not quite at the corner of his mouth. 

Rodney frowns a little, his lips sliding involuntarily into a small smile.

"What was that for?"

John just shrugs, because how the hell do you put it into words?


	9. Paper Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Got a secret for you, McKay." John is leaning closer, and Rodney can't help but tilt his chin up a little, can't supress the shudder that runs through him as John's low voice speaks directly into his ear. "I am not left-handed."

**Paper Hearts**

 

Rodney McKay's hands are never still, always folding and refolding, balancing and weighing, letting fly only to grab whatever is closest to hand - printed memos, letters from sponsors, on one notable occasion his niece's birth certificate - and immediately start folding again. His latest effort, built for accuracy rather than sustainability, crashes dead center in the nest of spikes that top John Sheppard's head. 

John lifts his head and blinks - sleepily, attractively, _infuriatingly_ \- at Rodney, and hums a soft question, deep in his throat. 

"At least attempt," Rodney snaps, "to look like this matters to you, Sheppard. It's bad enough that I'm forced to work with you, but your attitude is - you should be, I don't know, _stretching_. Limbering up. Working out the flying muscles." 

John yawns and rubs a hand over his face. Rodney nearly pops a blood vessel. 

"And take off that damned watch," he adds, voice loud enough to cause even Captain Laconic to raise an eyebrow. "It disrupts your balance."

"So long as I can fly them, McKay - " John's getting to his feet, flexing his hands slowly in a way that draws attention to his long fingers. Rodney swallows and looks away. 

"Yes, you can fly them, although how the hell anyone has managed to get to competitive level with a release posture like yours I cannot even begin to imagine. It's the only reason I haven't tossed you right back into the amateur leagues where I found you." 

John reaches over and tugs at the paper plane in his hands. The most basic of all basic models, simple but still beautiful as it glides, perfectly straight, across the conference room and into the cup of coffee that Kavanagh is just about to raise to his lips.

It's difficult to stay disgruntled at such display of skill, but he manages to scrape together enough remaining bad temper to snap.

"Fine. Fine. Just take the damned watch off."

"Got a secret for you, McKay." John is leaning closer, and Rodney can't help but tilt his chin up a little, can't supress the shudder that runs through him as John's low voice speaks directly into his ear. "I am not left-handed."

It takes Rodney longer than it ought to process this - he blames the musky-spiced scent coming off John's skin - but then he turns his head almost fast enough to slam his cheekbone against John's ear. 

"You mean you can - " he barely restrains his voice in time, ending on a strangled, whispered squeak - "you can throw _further_?"

Apparently John's nod causes him to lose his mind. Nothing else can explain why he siezes his 'pilot', hands on both of his cheeks, and smacks a kiss directly onto his mouth. 

"Oh god," he says, almost dizzy at how quickly the tide of red is climbing in his cheeks, "I didn't mean to do that." And he spins on his heel, and almost runs out of the room. 

Unsurprisingly, it's only a moment before footsteps follow him; it's a little more of a shock when he's pushed, head first, into a stationery cupboard. He spins quickly, formulating a plan to defend himself with paperclips, but is derailed entirely at the look in John's eyes. 

"How about we try that one again?"


	10. April Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're such an idiot, Sheppard. As if I would have - don't you have any idea how long I've been wanting - "

**April Fools**

 

McKay pushed him, hard, into the supply closet; John would have pushed back, except he was pretty damned sure that this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in front of anyone else. Instead he let momentum carry him forward until he was as far away from Rodney as he could possibly get, arms folded tight against the front of his black shirt.

Rodney looked both ways before allowing the door to slide shut, and the second or two of blackness before the lights hummed on twisted hard just below John's stomach.

Like everything else in Atlantis, the lights painted the closet orange-bled blue, and Rodney's face looked pale, lips bled dry by the tight line of his mouth.

"When, since you've known me, have I ever known the date?"

John didn't respond. Except maybe - maybe - the line of his back lost a little of its tension.

"I can't even remember the names of my minions most days, let alone - " Rodney's hands were waving now, and apparently the parallel processing was too much for his brain and he'd lost the tight control he'd reined onto his expression; the look was nothing so much as pleading, which wasn't exactly unfamiliar. "You're such an idiot, Sheppard. As if I would have - don't you have any idea how long I've been wanting - "

That was pretty much all John's restraint could take. Rodney was pressed up against the door, against John, before John'd even made a conscious decision about moving.

Rodney's mouth was just as warm, just as slick, just as eager as it'd been that morning. Just as much of a surprise and a damned revelation. Rodney grunted and gave back as good as he got, his hands sliding into John's back pockets even as he gently bit down on John's lower lip.

When John pulled away, Rodney was panting, a flush painted high on his cheekbones. There was an element of mischief to his smile, but John had other things to think about just then.

 

*

 

Later (where later means after John has dressed again, and used Rodney's shower, and softly kissed him goodnight):

"McKay?"

"Yes Colonel?"

John, hand still against the radio in his ear, couldn't quite sustain the frown at the mischief in Rodney's voice. He lifted a foot to nudge his mattress, and his bed jingled. Where the hell had Rodney gotten the pennies from?

"Thought you said you didn't know what the date it was?"

McKay's voice, when he answered, was low and self-satisfied, and John couldn't help the flash of heat that unhelpfully sparked in his belly.

"April fools."


	11. Breaking the Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodney - who has never in fact believed in the ridiculous noises of the porn he's watched because sex is nice enough certainly, but not particularly noiseworthy - feels and hears in equal measure as a small sound escapes from deep at the bottom and the back of his throat.

**Breaking the Silence**

 

John's mouth is light against his, the scrape of stubble uncomfortable and unprecedented and unmistakeably male, unmistakeably John, and hotter for it. Rodney - who has never in fact believed in the ridiculous noises of the porn he's watched because sex is nice enough certainly, but not particularly noiseworthy - feels and hears in equal measure as a small sound escapes from deep at the bottom and the back of his throat.

Rodney runs his tongue across his bottom lip, leaves his mouth open a little; invitation and impatient hint in one. John keeps his kisses gentle and unintrusive, and another thing Rodney's learned: the curve of a smile makes a genuine difference to how a kiss feels, and apparently produces an accompanying curl in the depths of his stomach.

"You know," he says, his lips brushing against John's who, although he's reluctant to move closer, apparently also won't move away, "when I said 'whatever you want' I didn't think I was agreeing to slow death by frustration."

"Sorry," John says, the lines crinkling around his eyes - blurred by their proximity - belying his apology. He anchors his hand around the back of Rodney's neck and pulls him closer, finally closer, sliding his tongue into Rodney's mouth and teasing Rodney's own. He pulls away before Rodney can take his revenge, and it prompts another of those involuntary noises, although this one is slightly more frustrated in nature.

"I just," John continues, thumb stroking across the back of Rodney's neck in place of his own, the gesture that most often matches that slightly uncomfortable tone of voice, "I just never thought much beyond just this."


	12. The Future Mrs McKaytoe Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a favor to ask, Colonel." And before John could respond, could think about changing his expression, "I need to borrow your ass."

**The Future Mrs McKaytoe Head**

 

"Sheppard!"

The click of oversized shoes quickened their pace behind him, and John Sheppard (of, naturally, the MASH unit) gave up trying to hide behind the oversized plastic cash register. He carefully clicked a smile into place and turned, drawling a greeting. 

"McKay."

Rodney's eyes were slightly glazed and half-lidded, looking at him intently from over a fixed and faintly manic grin. 

"I have a favor to ask, Colonel." And before John could respond, could think about changing his expression, "I need to borrow your ass."

John's smile froze in place. He wasn't sure he was co-ordinated enough even to switch it for a scowl. 

"You need to _what?_ "

"Your ass, Colonel. If you're not using it."

Rodney's rigid smile didn't waver for a second. It hadn't for three days, not since The Birthday, not since the Mrs Potatohead, not since _Jennifer_ with her _earrings_ and her collection of impractical _hats_. 

John rubbed a white-gloved hand over his mouth, considered switching it out for something a little less friendly. 

"I - if you'd rather I didn't, that's fine, it's just I've got a whole bunch of notes on a Grand Unifying Theory which I'd rather not leave around where that Etch-a-Czech Zelenka can get his hands on them - you know how much the Legos will be willing to pay for it." 

"Got to wonder what you're wanting to put in it, McKay."

Rodney was clicking his nose in and out, the way he did when he was nervous. Somewhere along the way his smile had been knocked a little lopsided.

"I - my Angry Eyes. It's been a while since I've - and I don't want them getting dirty, it's difficult enough getting the monkeys that work for me to take me seriously without an unhelpfully scuffed glare."

"Right." John rubbed a hand over his smile again, feeling a little hollow - and not just because he tended to leave most of his expressions in a jumble somewhere under the bed. "And this is for Jennifer's benefit?"

"The future Mrs McKaytoe Head," Rodney said smugly, carefully settling his smile into its upright position again. 

"Fine," John said. "Fine." And he turned, and folded his arms, and told Rodney, "get my spare mouth out while you're down there, would you?"

A little more fumbling, then Rodney was shuffling around so they were facing each other again, only Rodney seemed a little preoccupied by what was in his hand. 

"But - this is your Unimpressed Face. Why do you need your Unimpressed Face?"

"I just - I guess I think you should be with someone you can show your Angry Eyes to," John told him. And, heart in his mouth, he took his smile in his hand and pressed it, very gently, against Rodney's cheek.


	13. And Counting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So far, their twenty fourth kiss is his favourite.

**And Counting**

 

So far, their twenty fourth kiss is his favourite. 

It wasn't really prompted by anything, or at least nothing more compelling than an empty balcony and five crisis-less minutes, but with Rodney standing _right there_ that's pretty damned compelling. 

The moons were up, and Rodney's jaw was lined in silver, and John saw his eyes flicker towards the door just before they closed and he appreciates the concern, he really does. But when there's moonlight, and Rodney's wide hands curled around his hips, and the soft wordless noise he can tell Rodney tried to bite back, the marines and the regs and the SGFuckingC can take a running jump.

He had curled his hand around the side of Rodney's neck, thumb sweeping across the spot just below his ear that unfailingly makes Rodney shiver. (So far he's found three spots like that on Rodney's body, vulnerable to fingers or lips or tongue, and he's pretty sure there're more. Give him time.) It was the response that got him, though; the way he'd barely brushed his lips against Rodney's before the other man was pressing forward, kissing him back hard and deep and so fucking slow, as if they had all the time in the world and not just those five crisis-less minutes. 

"Later," Rodney'd said, when he'd (too soon) pulled away. And John had smiled, helpless; he's never had that to rely on, before. 

So far, John's kissed Rodney twenty four times. He's pretty sure the next one will be his favourite, too.


	14. Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yes I know, I know," Rodney flaps a hand, too jerky to be quite dismissive, but John has no idea what the hell it _does_ mean; "it means nothing, I realise that..."

**Something**

 

"Yes I know, I know," Rodney flaps a hand, too jerky to be quite dismissive, but John has no idea what the hell it _does_ mean; "it means nothing, I realise that, but the fact that it means nothing means something, yes? I mean, the fact that your nothing-meaning thing happened to mean nothing in a way that involved _me_. That's not _nothing_." 

John just blinks at him. 

"Right," says Rodney after a moment, his shoulders slumping, "right. Oh well: nothing is better than nothing, naturally. And I can be discreet." He does a small throwaway mime of locking his mouth closed then looks around a little helplessly, fingers still pinched together, as though wondering where the hell to hide the invisible key. 

John distracts him from it: steps forward and places his hand carefully on the side of Rodney's neck before he leans in to kiss him a second time, slow and careful and with a multitude of meanings. John's not sure Rodney gets all of them right away - the one about wishing a slow and painful death (or at least maiming) on anyone who taught him that this could ever be nothing is kind of abstract, admittedly - but John's pretty sure he gets across _something_.


	15. Off the Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not sure who made the 'Here Be Dragyns' sign, competently decorated with a fierce beast with fiery breath and a receding hairline, but he knows who moved it from the wall outside Rodney's lab to the door of his quarters.

**Off the Map**

 

John's not sure who made the 'Here Be Dragyns' sign, competently decorated with a fierce beast with fiery breath and a receding hairline, but he knows who moved it from the wall outside Rodney's lab to the door of his quarters. It had not been, he had told himself, possessiveness, merely sense; the number of people battering at Rodney's door at all hours of the night had genuinely dropped within the first week of it being there, and it's best for the city that the Chief Science Officer manages to get enough sleep. And - in the interests of the city, of course - John's here to make sure it happens. 

He's here to use up any remaining energy that might cause Rodney to stay up all night and run figures and simulations, taking his time and not letting Rodney be until he's beached and helpless on the bed, sprawled out and pleasure slack, eyelids drooping as he barely summons the energy to tug the covers over them. John's here to weigh Rodney down in the middle of the night, to force him to grab a notebook from the bedside table instead of his laptop and make only a quick-scratched map of his thoughts to be navigated by in the morning. He's here to watch him wake, eyes a drowsy sea-blue, slow gentle smile giving the lie to the ragged and fading picture still tacked firmly to his door. 

Because the 'dragyns' were only ever figments of sailors' unfamiliarity; John's taking care to gradually map out every part of Rodney's body with fingertips and the gentle pressure of his mouth.


	16. Oldest Trick in the Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be entirely too easy, Rodney thought, to get distracted by the way the moonlight gilded John's profile, lose track of their feet, and sprain something important when they inevitably tripped.

**Oldest Trick in the Book**

 

John kept drifting gently up against Rodney's side, staying a little longer every time before Rodney shrugged him back onto a course that pointed vaguely in the direction they were supposed to be heading. Rodney was technically the designated driver, but Ronon and Teyla were still enjoying the party and there was a small and vindictive part of him that wanted to practice his flying - he'd still never quite managed an entirely straight line - when John was feeling the aftereffects in the morning. 

"You'd probably find this walking thing easier," he groused, the whole long length of John resting itself against his side and putting him in immediate danger of tripping over one of the apparent multitude of dangling limbs, "if you'd actually look where you were _going_." He sighed as another arm - John was clearly some kind of cephalopod, and he hated that he'd spent enough time with the biologists to know the term - sneaked behind his back and anchored itself across his shoulders. 

"Hmm," John said unhelpfully, and kept looking up at the night sky. 

It would be entirely too easy, Rodney thought, to get distracted by the way the moonlight gilded John's profile, lose track of their feet, and sprain something important when they inevitably tripped. 

(It would be entirely too easy, Rodney refused to think, to ignore the boundaries that seemed constantly to shift and soften, to take advantage of John's tilted head and attack the lines of his neck with lips and teeth.)

"I should just leave you here," Rodney grumbled instead, because refuge in crankiness was where he excelled. 

John was distracted from the stars for long enough to turn his head, even that motion languid and unfocused. 

"Nah," he said with a slow grin, "you'd miss out."

"On what," Rodney snapped, "your scintillating conversation?" John just snorted and tilted his head back again. "What _is_ it that's so damned interesting up there, anyway?"

He tilted his head back, following John's line of sight, and couldn't see anything more interesting than a faint cluster of stars, but any scathing comment he might've made was cut off by the sweet warm pressure of John's mouth against his, unexpected and perfect.


	17. Timing is Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodney hates the way that John kisses him.

**Timing is Everything**

 

Rodney hates the way that John kisses him. Or - not the way, but the _when_ of it: snatched kisses in transporters, half-hard and halfway across the city in one moment's movement, emerging disgruntled and discombobulated and inevitably to marines; tugged into supply closets and pressed tight to the door, John's hand just as tight across his mouth as he licks long shivery lines along Rodney's neck; Jesus-fuck-we're-not- _dead_ kisses against DHDs and stargates and behind curtains in the infirmary, just on the knife-thin edges between _them_ and the world, the places they can be seen. 

He thinks he would find things easier if it could be blamed on the idiotic dictates of John's moronic government, if it was handjobs and blowjobs and hot but emotionless encounters - and not only because then at least he'd actually be getting to have _sex_. 

Instead there is concurrent too-much and not-enough, the taste of John's mouth ten times as addictive as the best coffee without even the clarity of a caffeine buzz to justify his habit. Just constant distraction, confusion, the aggravatingly _human_ problem of What John wants and Why, and How come they're not having _sex_ already, dammit. There is nothing he hates more than not understanding. 

That's why John pulls away and blinks at the transporter doors the next time, apparently bemused that they haven't yet hissed, signaled that they'll open. (Rodney is taking a moment to be smug that it took him at least fifteen seconds to notice.) 

"I - where -?" John starts, and Rodney's smug smile stops lurking and makes itself known. 

"East pier," he announces, "the part with all the mildew." And, because John doesn't seem to be getting it: " _Private_."

John's eyes widen a little, reaction still shaping his features around it, so Rodney takes the initiative for once. He leans forward to within a breath of John, whose lips part just the slightest bit, wordless, involuntary reaction. But the kiss, when he takes it, is nothing like the deep hurried kisses that John always steals. Their mouths move together for long moments before Rodney even brushes his tongue across John's lower lip, the soft groan this prompts both startling and - _God_ \- the hottest thing he's ever heard. 

(Until now, they have always had to do this in silence.)

When he pulls back again John looks raw and confused, cheeks flushed and eyes dark. He runs his tongue across his lips and Rodney - habit - bites back a noise. 

"It's - it's not that I - " John's voice is strained and awkward, and Rodney huffs out a snort. 

"I didn't bring you here to _talk_ about it," he says and - actions, words, all that - drops to his knees. 

"Oh god," John says faintly from above his head, and his hand comes down to cup Rodney's cheek; the gentleness of the gesture almost derailing his efforts to co-ordinate his fingers enough to open John's fly. "God, _Rodney_." And - _oh_. The way he says - his _voice_ \- Rodney suddenly understands why this has always been done in seconds and silence, what John has been careful not to let him know. He pauses, hands still at John's belt, and looks up to meet uncertain hazel eyes. 

"John," he says, hoping it's understood that he's carefully not-saying it back.


	18. The Height of Annoyance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The difference between their heights is negligible at best.

**The Height of Annoyance**

 

The difference between their heights is negligible at best; he’s convinced there’d be barely an inch in it if it weren’t for that feat of ridiculousness that’s chosen to take up residence on top of John’s head. And as if that weren’t enough, the amount of time that John spends leaning on doorframes, walls, furniture, _people_ – although that, that’s better not thought of, the way he looks when he’s pain-dazed enough to overlook the excessive contact, the way his poorly-laced boots drag across the gateroom floor and get caught somewhere in Rodney’s gut – 

He ought to be penalised a couple of inches, is Rodney’s point. Docked in all official records; height adjusted for insubordination. 

Besides which, Rodney has _breadth_. The fact that he can almost see Ronon’s raised eyebrow in his head, the way a little voice asks _is that what you call it, McKay?_ is irrelevant. Unimportant. Rodney has – as a drama examiner once told him - _presence_. John is essentially a long thin streak of torso; with, admittedly, decent shoulders, and biceps, and with the hands – 

And Rodney’s inability to remain on the point he’s trying to make would indicate that he’s using those ill-gained inches to somehow starve Rodney’s brain of essential oxygen. Or distract him with looming, possibly, taking a page from Ronon’s picture-book. _Something_. 

His _point_ is the unfair advantage John has when a smile accompanied with a ducked head can still be seen and therefore still distract Rodney from his _job_. Is the way that John’s extra inch (and hair) of height can be used to such great effect when he’s crowding Rodney against a wall. The way that tilting his head just that extra degree upward to meet John’s mouth destroys his balance to the point that he ends up having to lean on things himself, just to regain his equilibrium. 

It is, frankly, infuriating, and the temptation to follow through, officially take him down a peg or two, is almost overwhelming. But he supposes he can be the bigger man.


	19. Paroxysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...when it comes to whole body paroxysms of glee he's got nothing - nobody he's seen's got anything - on Rodney McKay.

**Paroxysm**

 

One of John's exes once told him that he laughed with his whole body, which was weirdly nice of her considering the conversation they were somewhere in the labyrinthine middle of; it made a hell of a lot more sense when she went on to tell him waspishly that it would've been nice if she'd _seen it_ more often and then circled back around to at least six right turns ago, somewhere around the brick wall of the 'emotionally unavailable'. John'd mostly kept his mouth shut, tried to keep one hand on the wall, to remember the way to get out. 

Thing is, he's since learned that she was wrong. Sure, he goes kind of boneless, limp and relaxed and she sure as hell didn't get to see _that_ often. But the thing is that John laughs with all of his _voice_ , laughs loud and long and obnoxious, but when it comes to whole body paroxysms of glee he's got nothing - nobody he's seen's got anything - on Rodney McKay. 

If he's honest, he doesn't even remember what the hell it is they're laughing at, and a lot of that is the particular brand of rotgut that's made it out to the balcony with them, but there's definitely at least a part of it that comes from fascinated cataloging of all the ways that Rodney's body laughs. The way his shoulders curl forward and his back curves into the same arch as when he's hunched over laptops and DHDs and hospital beds, only looser, only constantly shifting into his helpless gasps. The way one hand covers his face - taking breaks to wipe away the constant-leaking tears - while the other bats helplessly at the air, catching his giggles and waving them over to where they get caught in John's mouth, somewhere deep in his chest. Rodney's legs curling up towards his stomach, and his feet wiggling, and John's pretty sure that if he wrestled Rodney's boots away from him his toes'd be curling, too, desperate not to be left out of the whole damn experience. 

It's his mouth that holds John's attention, though, glinting faintly in the lights that have sneaked over from the bulk of the rest of the city to take part in something that belongs somewhere else. Somewhere where there're only first names, maybe. It's the curl of Rodney's lips that John can't look away from, the way only half of his mouth really commits to the smile, the way it seems like there's still a part of Rodney that's determined to cling onto the bastard reputation he's so proud of. The way that, despite itself, it's leaking helpless bubbles of high-pitched laughter that John wants to _taste_. 

He lunges forward, rotgut-unsteady, glancing contact on the very edge of an impossibly widening smile, catching instead laughing fingers in his mouth.


	20. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written after the news of cancellation appeared.

**Coda**

 

John hasn't shaved, admittedly, but it's the takeout containers all over the floor and the rumpled bedding on the couch that halts Rodney in his tracks. After the neat military corners unfailingly found on John's undersized bed at h- on Atlantis, this jars him. 

"Maid service not been in?" His tone isn't quite sarcastic enough; he'll have to work on that. 

"Something like that." John grins ruefully, picks up a couple of empty bottles from among the detritus and puts them onto the counter, takes a look at the rest of the mess like he can't really remember how it got there. Rodney can relate. 

He has no idea what to say, is the thing. The idea of talking about work makes him sick to his stomach, and it's not as though enquiring after mutual friends is any less of a minefield, and John is settling back against the counter with arms folded and a smirk on his face and _GAME OVER, TRY AGAIN Y/N_... 

John had _smiled_ when he'd seen him at the door. Open and surprised and unintentionally honest. That's the part that _counts_. 

"I've never been to Tibet," he says, abrupt and brash in the space between them. John raises an eyebrow. 

"Tibet or, or Turkey, or Tasmania, or a whole plethora of other places beginning with T. Other letters, too. It doesn't have to be - and it's not like they didn't all look like Canada, anyway." His gestures are too wide, making up for John's stillness. "It's not like there aren't still new things we can see."

"Wait," John says, face still closed up tight, "we're talking about this now?"

"Because silence is working out so _well_ for us." Another expansive gesture, taking in the state of John's apartment and, almost incidentally, John himself. "Because our lives are so damned fulfilling now that we can talk about everything that's _not_ \- "

He still can't quite say it, so he marches forward and pokes John instead, a hard jab directly to the center of his chest. 

"This doesn't have to be the _end_ of it, John." And damn it all, but his voice breaks a little on the name. He looks down, almost misses it when John moves forward, arms going awkwardly around him. 

"Okay," he says, "okay. I - I always wanted to go to Bermuda." His voice is scratchy, barely there. "How about it?"

And if the hug was awkward, the lips pressed against the corner of his mouth are somehow even more so, but they can work on that. It's a start.


End file.
